


He Makes Me

by rac06h10ael



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Adaptation Of An Original Story Of Mine, Alternate Universe, Bisexuality, Brian And Roger Will Get Together, Crossdressing, Escape, Friendship, Gay, Gay Sex, I Couldn't Let Go Of My Characters, I promise, It'll Have A Better Ending Than Some Day One Day, Kidnapping, M/M, Maylor - Freeform, Physical Abuse, Smile (Band) Era, Stockholm Syndrome, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:34:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29137923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rac06h10ael/pseuds/rac06h10ael
Summary: "Who knows who he'll make me as I lie in his cocoon . . . I'm warm and terrified, he makes me so."The flyer asked for a "Ginger Baker type" drummer, but what Smile was really looking for was the next addition to Tim's new "project." After a day of unimpressive auditions, the band was starting to lose hope - that is, until Roger Taylor walked in. He took both Tim's and Brian's breaths away with his performance, and even more so, his appearance, charming his way into the band and, unfortunately, their hearts.A year goes by, and while the band's preparing for their first studio session, Brian goes missing. He won't answer his calls, and his neighbors haven't seen him in weeks. Concerned, Roger goes searching for him - only to find himself in a situation he can't get out of, and maybe doesn't want to.See what happens in "He Makes Me."***Shorter, broken-down chapters on Wattpad under the same username***
Comments: 8
Kudos: 21





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nachaelsquared](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nachaelsquared/gifts).



It all began in 1968, when Brian May stapled handwritten advertisements all around London, calling for a drummer for Smile, a new band he had founded with Tim Staffell. The two—a guitarist and bassist, respectively—considered themselves friends, having gone to grammar school together and playing in the same band before this one. They shared a similar vision in regards to the music they wanted to make, and because of that, Brian had no reason to believe that Tim had something else in mind for this new project.

The bassist knew what he was doing when he sent the guitarist out to post those flyers up wherever he could; what he didn’t know was that he’d find just what he was looking for in a young man named Roger Taylor.

Roger heard about the audition from a friend who was enrolled at Imperial College, and though the friend mocked the flyer and its creators for requesting a “Ginger Baker type” drummer, the blonde sneaked off one day to give it a shot. After all, it wasn’t like he had anything to lose—or so he thought.

He dragged his feet down the dark, narrow halls, his gaze flickering between the numbers displayed beside the classroom doors and the crumpled flyer in his hands—a small tear at the top from where he’d ripped it from the noticeboard at the school. Suddenly, while his head was down and his eyes were locked on the advert, Roger was shoved into the wall, the piece of paper slipping through his fingers and settling on the ground by his feet.

“Hey!” the blonde snapped at the person who’d brushed shoulders with him rather harshly, and who he assumed was a student. “Watch where you’re going, would you? Bloody hell...”

The student spun around and flipped him the bird, barely catching sight of Roger’s jaw drop before they turned back and continued down the corridor, descending the staircase at the end. The blonde had half a mind to go after the stranger; he even started to roll up his sleeves in preparation of throwing a hook or two their way, but instead, he refrained, bending down and snatched the flyer up from the floor. As he did this, the drumsticks he tucked in his back pocket slipped out, clattering against the cheap linoleum—the sound echoing down the empty hall. 

With a frustrated sigh, Roger grabbed the sticks and went on his way, reaching the room indicated on the advertisement and peering his head around the threshold. His arrival gained the attention of the curly-haired Physics student and his brunette friend, who—upon noticing his presence—both stopped dead in the middle of the conversation they were having.

“Hi,” Roger greeted, stepping into the doorway and holding up the flyer that had miraculously survived the trip. “I hear you're having auditions for a Ginger Baker type drummer?”

“Yeah,” Tim drawled, enthralled by the blonde he couldn’t take his eyes off of.

“W-Why don’t you come on in,” Brian stammered, just as fascinated by him as Tim. He lifted his hand in the direction of the drums that had been borrowed from a friend, wordlessly inviting the blonde to have at it. Roger grinned widely and handed off the flyer, gravitating towards the kit and, after retuning each drum by ear, taking to it like it was his own.

Admittedly, both Brian and Tim were enamored by his performance, but what they were really drawn to were his looks, his charisma. 

Some would say it was almost love at first sight, but neither man would confess to this, afraid to admit to each other and themselves that they were attracted to a man. Instead, they chalked their blatant adoration up to Roger’s talent, using his impressive abilities to mask their true feelings about him—one man’s stronger than the other’s. It was only in private, apart from one another, where they let their feelings show, thinking of their new drummer while they ran their hands over themselves in the shower or sketching him in the back of their notebook during class. The two imagined Roger differently, though, with Brian picturing the young man just as he was while Tim saw him more . . . dressed up.

It absolutely shattered the brunette when he found out that Roger had begun to develop an interest in Brian. About a year after they’d welcomed the blonde into the band, he discovered that the two of them had started to spend more time together, alone, outside of practice. 

One night, while looking for the guitarist to discuss a new song he’d written, the bassist stumbled upon the pair in Imperial College’s library, where they’d hidden themselves behind a bookcase. They sat dangerously close to one another on the floor with giddy grins plastered on their faces and light laughter stifled under their breaths. Tim lingered in the next row over, watching from in between books as the distance that separated the two bandmates shrunk. At one point, they were so close that Roger—staring lustfully into Brian’s eyes—dared to graze his hand beneath the guitarist’s jawline, lean in, and capture Brian’s lips with his. The scene sent the bassist’s heart racing and colored his cheeks a bright shade of red, but he kept quiet as the two began to lose themselves in the moment, the blonde moving himself into the guitarist’s lap and the latter snaking his arms around the drummer’s back to pull him closer.

Before it became too much to handle, Tim slipped away with his jaw clenched and his hands tightened into fists by his sides. On his long walk home through the cold of winter, with tears that threatened to spill from his eyes streaking his frost-bitten cheeks, the bassist debated what he should do about the new, forbidden coupling. He could confront them about it, but then what? Ask them to stop seeing each other so that _he_ and the blonde could see each other? Threaten to expose them if they said no? They both had girlfriends; it wouldn’t look good for either of them if word were to get out that they were seen locked at the lips with their hands going where they shouldn’t be. However, he couldn’t out them without running the risk of outing himself too. 

It wasn’t until Tim got home, calmed down, and warmed up that he contrived an even better idea, an idea so infallible that Brian would never get in his and Roger’s way ever again, and no one would have to be discovered for who they really were. No one.

*****

“Hey, have you heard from Brian lately?” the blonde wondered as he and the bassist walked down the snow-caked pavement, hands shoved into their coat pockets and chins buried in thick scarves. They had just gotten out of classes and were going to Tim’s place to work on the new song the brunette had come up with—their first recording session just weeks away. “He hasn’t been returning my calls, and when I went by his flat the other day, his neighbors told me they haven’t seen him in over two weeks.”

“‘Fraid I haven’t,” Tim muttered, following his curt answer up with a deceptive, “I wouldn’t worry, though. He does this kind of thing sometimes.”

Roger arched his brow, stealing a quick glance at the man beside him before shifting his gaze back down to his feet in search of ice patches. “What kind of thing?”

“He likes to disappear sometimes,” the brunette lied, keeping his eyes locked forward. “You know, to clear his mind, start thinking straight again. Sometimes it’s for a few days, sometimes it’s for a few weeks, but he always comes back.”

“Always?” the blonde repeated, unable to control the nervous taper in his voice. 

“Always,” Tim echoed flatly, abruptly dipping into the corner store to his right and dragging Roger in with him. The two walked up to the counter, and the brunette nodded his head at the pack of smokes he wanted to buy. Roger reached around Tim’s side and grabbed a Zippo, placing it on the counter at the same time the store clerk set down the small box of cigarettes. The clerk met his gaze with tired eyes—the blonde flashing her an unreciprocated smile before she punched in the keys to register and bleakly informed the boys of their total. 

“Grab us two beers, would you?” Tim mumbled while snatching the pack up from the counter and extracting a cigarette. Roger nodded his head and slipped away to the coolers, Tim grabbing the Zippo next and lighting the end of the white stick that stuck out from the corner of his mouth. The clerk narrowed her stare and tapped a few more keys, updating their total as the blonde returned with two amber bottles, one in each hand. 

The brunette plucked the cigarette from his lips and blew a stream of smoke to the side, handing off the white stick to the blonde and shoving his hand into his jacket to fish for his wallet. He pulled out a few notes and slammed them down on the counter, winking at the clerk and taking the items with him as he left—Roger following in tow, a small grin daring to break out on his face.

The pair’s casual, unsuspecting stride suddenly turned into a full-on sprint, the boys dodging the clerk and her angered shouts that they hadn’t paid enough as they wove in and around the passersby on the street, running as fast as they could until they reached the street Tim lived on and plopped themselves down at the bottom of the steps leading to the brunette’s tenement. Their smiles stretched from ear to ear as they lay sprawled across the stairs, struggling to catch their breaths and stop the adrenaline from pumping through their veins.

“We really gotta stop doing that, Tim,” the blonde chuckled, dropping his head back against the wet, frigid, concrete step and snagging another drag from the cigarette he managed to hold onto during their escape. “We’re going to get caught.”

“Only if we’re not careful,” Tim replied, turning his head and watching as Roger drew the white stick away from his lips that pursed to form the streamline puff of smoke he exhaled. He bit his lip when the blonde met his gaze, smiling through the smoke that still spilled from his mouth. Without having to ask, Roger extended one of the two beers out to Tim, the gesture breaking him out of the daze he’d fallen into and encouraging him to sit up.

The brunette twisted the cap off the bottle and brought it up to his lips, feeling the chilled liquid slide down the back of his throat and provide him with some warmth from the wintry cold air surrounding him. With half the drink gone, he dropped his hands into his lap and swirled the brew around inside the bottle, taking another look at the blonde who stared at the gray sky with his fingerless-mittened hands folded atop his rising and falling chest.

“Would you say you know Brian better than I do?” Roger blurted out, a genuine, almost innocent quality to his query.

Tim rolled his eyes, annoyed by the blonde’s relentless concern for the guitarist. “Depends on what you think I know about him that you don’t.”

“I just think it’s strange that he would disappear without saying anything to me.”

The brunette laughed. “That’s kind of the point of disappearing, Roger, isn’t it?” When all he got in response was silence, the smile disappeared from his face and he muttered, “Just stop worrying about it, okay? He’ll be back before you know it.”

“And if he’s not?” 

Tim smirked, his annoyance evolving into amusement. “I never knew you were so inquisitive, Roger.” He brought the beer back to his lips and finished it off, stuffing the empty bottle into the pile of snow that had accumulated in the corner between the step he was sitting on and the one he was leaning against.

“I’m just worried,” the drummer mumbled, sitting up with a grunt and examining the bottle in his hands—the still-burning cigarette pinched between his index and middle fingers. “I mean, aren’t you?”

The bassist stood up and sighed, his frustrated breath manifesting itself in the bone-chilling breeze. “Like I said, he’s done this before, and you worrying about him isn’t going to bring him back sooner.” He glanced down at the blonde who clearly wasn’t satisfied with the answer he’d received, looking up at the brunette with glistening baby blues. _“He’s fine, Roger.”_

The blonde clenched his jaw and shifted his attention to his unopened beer, rubbing his thumb over the label while the other hand brought the white stick back to his lips.

“Why don’t we go inside and get you a cup of tea, yeah?” Tim offered, hoping to bring back the smile that marked Roger’s face just moments ago, as well as the joy they felt from their little excursion. When the blonde didn’t move, he stuck one hand in his pocket and held the other out for him to take, urging, “Come on, it’s cold out, and I think I’ve got some biscuits somewhere for us to eat.”

Roger only glimpsed at Tim’s extended hand, returning his gaze forward, exhaling slowly, and murmuring, “I’ll be in in a bit.”

Tim stared at the drummer, a similar feeling that bubbled up inside of him the first time he saw Brian and Roger in the library resurfacing. He hated it when people didn’t do what he wanted, when they disobeyed him—even without realizing it, like Roger did that day in the library. He wasn’t supposed to fall for Brian; he was supposed to fall for Tim.

As he thought about this, the brunette gritted his teeth and dug his nails into the palms of his hands, nearly drawing blood. Had it not been for the blonde looking up at him again and repeating, “I said I’d be in in a bit,” the brunette probably would’ve.

Those eight words brought Tim back to reality, though, and without saying anything else, he trudged up the steps and slipped inside the building, closing the door behind him and falling against it—his heart pounding against his rib cage and his world becoming washed in red. It didn’t take him long to notice the pair of eyes staring at him through the crimson fog that distorted his vision, and when he did, his entire demeanor changed. 

“What did I tell you…” he growled, peeling himself away from the door and running towards the pair of eyes, shouting, “...about being out when you’re not supposed to!?!”


	2. Chapter 2

Roger stared at the two vices in his hand, wondering if the alcohol or the nicotine would sooner drown out the thoughts that swirled inside his head. He hated to admit how much he’d fallen for the Physics student, caring for him like he cared for no other person in his life—not even his girlfriend, Jo, or his own mother. The last two weeks had been absolute torture for the blonde, mostly because the last time they saw each other, Brian left no signs that he’d disappear for the next fourteen days or had any inclination to do so.

_The two lay in the curly-haired guitarist’s bed, bare bodies draped in wrinkled sheets. Roger’s head rested on Brian’s smooth stomach—the latter’s long fingers gently raking through the blonde’s disheveled locks. Though the windows were fogged and the cold of winter waited just outside, the room was warm and their bodies were speckled with beads of sweat._

_“I think we should tell Tim about us,” Brian blurted out, disrupting the comfortable silence the two of them shared._

_Roger tilted his head back, brows furrowed. “Why?”_

_The guitarist shrugged, taking a single piece of the blonde’s hair and twisting it between his forefinger and his middle. “It’s only fair.” Brian stole a quick glance down at his lover and knew by the stoic expression on his face that he wasn’t convinced. “I mean, we’re in a band together.”_

_“Yeah, and what does that have to do with us?” the blonde snapped, flipping over so that his stomach rested on the mattress and his folded arms held him up._

_Brian sighed, pushing himself up with a slight grunt and sitting with his back against the cold wall. “Wouldn’t you want to know if Tim and I were together?”_

_“We’re not together, Brian,” Roger reminded him, a harshness to his voice that protected him from the vulnerability that came with the truth—that he wished they were, even though it was wrong. “We’re just messing around, having fun, right? So, there’s no need for Tim—”_

_“He saw us, Rog,” the guitarist cut him short, draining all the color from the blonde’s face. “In the library. A few weeks ago. You…We were kissing, and I saw him through the bookstacks.”_

_“Shit,” the drummer murmured under his breath, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and dropping his head into his hands._

_Brian frowned and moved so that he sat by Roger, holding onto the edge of the mattress and looking down at their feet that dangled by the piles their discarded clothes had made. In that same moment, the silence he’d broken had returned with a vengeance, ripping away the warmth that previously surrounded them and replacing it with a bitter chill._

_The guitarist knew that part of what made his and the drummer’s arrangement so exciting was the secret of it all, but after catching a glimpse of Tim in that library, an unexplainable guilt began to eat away at him. Every time he and Roger would sneak off, yank at each other’s clothes, and do to one another what they should be doing to their girlfriends, he couldn’t escape those eyes, those narrow, peering, resentful eyes._

_Unaware of the brunette’s feelings, Brian didn’t know why Tim looked at them the way he did, or why he stayed and watched them, growing more and more upset. Moreover, he didn’t understand why Tim had yet to bring it up. Was he waiting for the right moment? Hoping to catch them in act again? Either way, the guitarist couldn’t take it anymore. He needed to come clean; he needed to make things right._

_“We can do it together,” the guitarist suggested softly, once again interrupting the quiet that consumed them both. He glanced at Roger, seeing that—out of the corner of his eye—he’d met his gaze. The corner of his lip pricked up, and he placed a hand on the blonde’s knee, giving it a slight, reassuring squeeze. “It’s only fair,” he repeated, dragging his hand up Roger’s thigh and, in turn, bringing their faces closer together as the blonde turned his head. Brian’s smirk stretched into a smile, and as his hand trailed back down towards the drummer’s knee, he closed his eyes and leaned in for a kiss—except, their lips didn’t meet._

_“How about you do it alone and let me know how it goes?” Roger murmured, sitting back and grinning at the disappointed yet amused expression that crossed the older, curly-haired man’s face. “Maybe then you’ll get a kiss,” he tacked on, tapping the guitarist on the nose and slipping away towards the door. “Possibly more, if it goes well.”_

_“Less, if it doesn’t?”_

_“Depends.”_

_“You really want to do it this way?” Brian asked, turning the bare-assed blonde around in the doorway—his hands gripping the threshold._

_“Well, yeah, you’ve known him longer than I do,” he rationalized, dropping his head to the side. “Don’t you think he’d rather hear it from an old friend than the guy he met just a year ago?”_

_The guitarist kept quiet, biting back the argument that danced at the tip of his tongue. He knew he was helpless against those baby blues boring into his hazel ones, begging him to come on over and make him late for his next class, so he conceded, hanging his head and replying, “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”_

_“I’m always right,” Roger quipped, winking at the guitarist who smiled back and playfully tossed a pillow at him._

That was the last exchange the two of them had before they went their separate ways, seemingly never to talk to or see one another again, and Roger couldn’t stop thinking about it. It was the first thing on his mind when he woke up, and the last thing on his mind before he went to sleep. It was the only thing he could think about during his lectures, and while Jo planted kisses across his cheeks and neck, running her hands down his chest and over his waist. He just couldn’t figure out what he said or did to push Brian away.

Heaving a sigh, the blonde smothered the cigarette into the step and tossed the beer bottle to the side. He picked himself up, brushed off the back of his jacket, and trudged up the steps, grabbing the doorknob and going to turn it—the knob staying in place. Roger’s brows furrowed together in confusion, the drummer trying to open the door once more.

“Tim?” he called, unsuccessfully twisting the sedentary doorknob. “Tim!”

“I-I’ll be right there!” the bassist stammered, his voice traveling from the back of the tenement.

Roger scoffed and turned his back to the door, hugging himself for warmth and wishing he’d kept the cigarette burning. His eyes flickered to the left, where he saw the bottle’s neck sticking out of the snow, having landed perfectly in the soft, white blanket that covered most of London. His feet started to move towards the steps, only for the door to click open behind him and spin him back around.

“Sorry about that,” Tim apologized, leaning against the threshold and running a hand through his hair. “‘Had to clean up a bit.” The blonde’s gaze locked on the new gash that marked the bassist’s cheek. He arched his eyebrow and cocked his head to the side. “What the hell are you looking at?” the brunette snapped.

“Where’d you get the cut?” Roger asked.

“I fell,” Tim lied, pushing open the door more and waving the blonde in. The drummer crossed his arms, staring suspiciously at the fresh wound that had been poorly covered up with a single plaster. “Jesus Christ, Rog,” the brunette scoffed. “You’re ‘bout freeze out there. Get inside.”

Without saying a word, and without losing sight of the scratch, the blonde dragged himself through the door—Tim closing it behind him and leaning against it. He watched as Roger wandered down the hall, taking in the building’s foyer that sent a shiver down his spine. It wasn’t often that Tim had people over, and with the shoddy state of the tenement, no one could blame him.

“Which one’s yours, again?” Roger wondered aloud, examining the letter board that looked as though it hadn’t been touched or updated in years. Several of the flats appeared unoccupied, and the ones whose numbers were accompanied by names were missing letters. The blonde couldn’t make out a single tenant—not even Tim.

“Sorry, what?” the brunette muttered, shaking his head and snapping out of the daze he’d fallen into, his mind having drifted to a dark place.

“Which one do you live in?” He turned his head toward the bassist, who peeled himself away from the door and joined the drummer’s side. Tim stared at the board like he had never seen it before, his eyes scanning the panel up and down before his finger jabbed **2D** , where the letters read **S A FE L**. 

“That one.”

Roger clicked his tongue, flashing the brunette a meager grin. “‘Should’ve known.” An awkward silence fell over the pair as the blonde’s gaze shifted back to the staircase. He couldn’t deny the uneasy feeling that formed in the pit of his stomach, a heavy, foreboding presence surrounding him. He wondered if Tim noticed it, or if he’d been living there long enough that he’d just grown accustomed to it. 

The time to ask had passed, though, with Tim abandoning his side and heading for the stairs. Roger blindly followed, trailing behind the brunette and into his flat, which kept in fashion with the rest of the tenement—dark, cold, and trashed. The blonde could hardly tell that his friend cleaned up, the spaces he created at the table, on the couch, and in the kitchen barely noticeable in the filth that consumed the place.

Tim carelessly tossed his jacket at the coat rack by the door and ventured into the kitchen, where dirty dishes piled high on the counters, all but for the stovetop. He grabbed a kettle from the mix—a plate and glass tumbling to the ground with a clatter but no breakage—and brought it over to the sink. When he turned on the faucet, it sputtered, the pipes creaking within the walls. Roger, watching intently, flinched as a forceful brown stream abruptly spewed from the faucet head, the color fading away the longer it ran. Once it cleared, the brunette stuck the kettle underneath it and listened as the water filled it up.

“Your landlord still hasn’t fixed that?” the blonde mumbled, briefly stealing his friend’s gaze away from the teapot.

“He’s been out of town,” Tim lied, shutting off the water and returning the kettle to the stove. He whipped out a lighter and held the small flame to the burner, twisting the knob. A repetitive click echoed through the flat as the burner attempted to ignite, a faint gas smell permeating the air. Finally, the flame took to the igniter—a little too quickly for the brunette, who ripped his hand away and shook off the sudden stinging sensation.

Roger crossed his arms uncomfortably over his chest and offered, “You know, if you want, you could probably stay with me and Jo until your landlord comes back. You could sleep on the couch, and she’s got clean water. Her mum actually just bought her this new electric kettle, and she’s been dying to try it out.”

“I’m good,” the brunette passed, saying no more before escaping down the hallway to his bedroom. 

The blonde heaved a frustrated sigh and shoved his hands into his pockets, allowing his gaze to wander around the dimly lit room. He never had the chance to take a good look at the flat before, with Tim usually only having Brian or Roger in there for minutes at a time while he grabbed his guitar and the sheets of paper he wrote his songs down on. Then they’d take up camp on the steps out front, since it was summer and the air was warm. It never occurred to Roger before, but in all those times they played and sang outside, perched on the handrails and stretched out across the stairs, not once did someone come or go or stick their head out their window to tell them to knock it off—and sometimes, they’d be out there for hours.

With furrowed brows, Roger thought back to the letter board, wondering if the lack of tenants and the reason Tim, Brian, and him never had to move was somehow related to it. However, the train of thought was stopped abruptly by Tim’s return, a collection of papers gripped tightly in his hand. He approached the blonde and gave him a crooked grin.

“It’s called ‘Step on Me’,” he explained, his hands trembling ever so slightly with what the drummer could only assume was excitement. “I want you to tell me what you think.”

Roger pulled his hands out of his pockets and took the song into his possession, looking down at the near illegible handwriting and moving to the only open seat on the couch—the other half occupied by a pile of dirty clothes, mostly if not all women’s. Tim lingered for a moment or two, adding to the drummer’s unease and distracting him from taking genuine interest in the lyrics he was told to critique.

Suddenly, the kettle started to cry, saving the blonde from the brunette’s unwavering stare by calling him to the kitchen. Tim turned the flame off and plucked the teapot from the grates, bringing it over to the two teacups he had set out on the table and pouring as equal an amount of steaming liquid into each as he could. Without so much as a second thought, the brunette set the hot kettle down on the table and turned his head to look at the blonde through the open doorway separating them. It relieved him to see that his attention was on the song instead of him, though now he was slumped back with his chin tucked into his chest and the papers resting in his lap.

With Roger preoccupied, Tim stuck his hand into the back pocket of his pants and extracted a small vial of white powder. He yanked the top off and poured about half of it into one of the teacups. He checked again to make sure Roger hadn’t seen him, and sure enough, the drummer was just the way he was a brief moment ago. The corner of Tim’s lip twitched upward into a victorious grin, capping the vial and sticking it in his back pocket.

“Here we go,” the brunette announced, slipping back into the front room and extending the tampered drink to his guest. “One for you, one for me.”

“These lyrics aren’t half bad, you know,” the blonde replied, sitting up from his slouched position and switching out the song with the tea. “Who’re they about?” he asked, glancing up at Tim. 

“Oh, just an old friend,” he murmured, hanging his head and anxiously tapping his finger against the side of the porcelain cup. It didn’t take him long to get lost in the amber liquid that rippled like a wet surface disturbed by a single drop of water, but really was caused by the continued shaking of his hands.

It wasn’t until Roger muttered, “Whoever they are, they sound awful,” that Tim came to, nodding his head and agreeing that they were. “You got any chords to it yet?” the blonde continued his interrogation, sitting forward and setting the teacup his lips had yet to touch on the corner of the coffee table buried under layers of trash.

“Not thirsty?” Tim rattled off, his heart starting to race.

The blonde chuckled. “I’m gonna take that as a no.”

“You should really drink the tea, Rog,” the bassist insisted, laughing nervously, “I made it just for you.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” he reminded him softly, snatching up the papers and giving them another look over. The tapping in Tim’s fingers traveled down to his feet, and the shaking in his hands to his legs. It enraged him, the sight of that teacup on the corner of the table, calling Roger’s name, begging him to drink it—even just one sip. The bassist had half a mind just to tear the song away from him, open his jaw, and pour the drink down his throat himself, but then he remembered that he had to play this cool. He didn’t want a repeat of last time.

With a clenched jaw and tight grip on his own teacup, Tim gritted out a barely audible, “No.”

“No, what?” Roger asked, a hint of disinterest in his voice as he focused on the lyrics, trying to hear a melody in them.

“No, I don’t have any chords for the song,” the brunette elaborated, his voice low and attracting the blonde’s attention. Though he’d felt it since the moment he walked inside, this was the first time Roger realized what had been unsettling him so much. It was Tim’s strange behavior.

The drummer wasn’t blind to the way his band members felt about him. He saw it in their eyes the second he walked into the audition, and he knew that he’d have to be careful when he started seeing the guitarist behind the bassist’s back, which was why he wasn’t as keen on coming forward about their affair as Brian was. He knew how Tim felt, and he was no stranger to the advances the brunette would make. He welcomed them in order to keep the peace—not to mention that he sort of got a thrill out of having more than one person interested in him. It made him feel good about himself, but this, Tim’s behavior today, it scared him. Roger had never seen the bassist so skittish, so on edge.

“Got your guitar?” he blurted out, breaking the tension that grew between them.

“In my room,” Tim answered, the lack of emotion in his voice unwavering.

“Why don’t you go get it, and we can try to get a progression going?” Roger suggested, a deceptive smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

The brunette couldn’t help but grin himself, hoping that if he played along with the blonde’s little game, Roger would drink the tea on his own and he wouldn’t have to jump to the drastic measures he imagined needing to go to. “Sure,” Tim said, turning on his heel and escaping down the hallway he’d retrieved the song still in his hands from.

The blonde sat forward, watching as the bassist disappeared into one of the rooms down the hall. When he could no longer see his shadowed silhouette, Roger set the song down and picked himself up off the couch—slowly, so the furniture or floor wouldn’t creak beneath him. He took a similar approach with his steps towards the door, opening it as quietly as he could. However, before he could slip out into the hallway, a voice hit his ear.

“Where do you think you’re going?”


	3. Chapter 3

Roger slowly turned his head over his shoulder, his wide eyes falling upon Tim’s narrowed ones. He swallowed the nervous lump in his throat, watching as his friend crossed his arms over his chest and tipped his head to the side in anticipation of an answer to his question.

“Where am I going?” he repeated, the crack in his voice working against him. The brunette nodded. “I…I’m going out for a smoke.”

“Empty handed?” Tim questioned, his tone flat but his face twisted in betrayal.

A nervous chuckle slipped past Roger’s lips. “Good call.” He slowly gravitated towards the coat rack, refusing to lose eye contact with the bassist as he stuck his hand into his jacket and extracted the stolen box of cigarettes from its pocket. He flashed the brunette a subtly triumphant grin and gave the package a slight shake as proof of his victory, heading for the door once more when Tim cleared his throat.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” he sneered, a forced grin tugging at the corners of his tight lips.

The blonde hung his head and sighed. “‘Don’t think so.”

“Think again.”

Roger looked back at Tim and saw the lighter clenched in his raised fist. “Oh, right.” Another anxious laugh emanated from the back of his throat before he dared to cross the room, pocketing the pack of smokes and shortening the distance between him and the strangely behaving bassist. The two men stared at each other, waiting for the other to strike, trying to be one step ahead. Finally, the blonde’s eyes flickered down to the Zippo, his hand instinctively reaching for it—only to be seized by Tim’s, whose fingers wrapped around his wrist like a snake.

“What the fuck, Tim?” Roger snapped, his eyes darting back up to meet his friend’s.

Their two gazes bore into one another a bit longer, the silence in the flat deafening and the grip on the blonde’s wrist growing tighter as the brunette battled the unspeakable urges raging inside of him. Eventually, he let go, and the drummer brought his wrist to his chest, cradling it in his other hand and looking at the bassist like he’d never seen him before. For all that mattered, Roger hadn’t. He’d never seen Tim act this way before, or carry the tone of voice that he was. Standing before him was a stranger, and if he knew any better, he would’ve bolted out of there as fast as he could right then and there.

But he didn’t.

Instead, Roger rubbed his aching wrist and waited for Tim to explain himself; to shake himself out of the weird daze he was in. The brunette was too far gone for that, though, his vision locked on the blonde and his thoughts swirling around the syringe he had tucked away in his back pocket.

He could see it now, reaching for it while Roger was at his most vulnerable and jumping forward, sticking the thin needle through the soft skin of the blonde’s neck and pushing the plunger down with his thumb, injecting clear liquid into the throbbing vein. He could feel Roger’s weight crippling into his arms as the paralyzing drug coursed through his body, his muscles tensing up but his mind screaming for relief. The thought of those baby blues staring up at him helplessly excited the brunette, but he wouldn’t get it to see it through—not then, at least.

Roger scoffed at his despondent friend and escaped to the kitchen, grabbing the handle of the refrigerator—ready to gather some ice to prevent swelling—when Tim spun around and cried, “Stop!”

“Jesus Christ!” the blonde shouted. “What now?”

“You can’t go in there,” the bassist rattled off, quickly wedging himself between the drummer and the old appliance and guarding it with his hands extended outward.

“And why the hell not?” Roger growled, his patience wearing thin.

“Because I…I said so,” Tim drawled, refusing to reveal the true reason he didn’t want the blonde searching through his icebox.

The pair entered another stare down, this one much shorter than the last with Roger raising his bruising wrist and explaining, “I need ice, Tim. You fucking hurt me. The least you can do is give me some goddamn ice.”

The brunette clenched his jaw, frustrated with the resistance the blonde was expressing. He wanted so badly to put an end to it and get on with his plan, but Roger wasn’t like the ones before him, and therefore, Tim couldn’t treat him like he did the others.

Without saying another word, Tim took one step to the side—keeping his front to the drummer—and grabbed the towel that had been draped over the counter surrounding the sink. He slid back into place, opened the fridge with one hand, and slid the other through the small crack between the door and the frame, all without breaking his gaze with the blonde. The rattle of the ice as he rifled through the dish they were in filled the air, doing little to disrupt the electric tension that buzzed between the two men.

Finally, the brunette offered Roger the makeshift cold compress, a strained smile crawling across his lips. “Here.”

The blonde snatched the towel with his free hand and glared at his friend, holding the ice-filled rag to his injured wrist. The two stood there in the kitchen like that, silent, for a while, before Tim dared to leave Roger’s side. The drummer’s eyes followed the bassist as he retreated to the bedroom hallway for the third time that afternoon, but for the first time, he noticed the protrusion outlined in his pants’ pocket. His brow arched as he wondered if it had been there the whole time; if he hadn’t noticed it when they were hanging out together prior to them retreating to the brunette’s apartment. He would’ve if it had been there, but it hadn’t. It was new, something Tim added on his first or second trip down the hallway. The question was, why?

Roger had no time to even think about the answer to that question before Tim returned, once again empty handed. He occupied the space that the blonde had previously sat in and made himself comfortable, spreading out the sheets he’d shared atop the clutter that covered the coffee table. He was careful not to cover the teacups, though, hoping that—at some point—the blonde would cave and take a sip. His plan would play out much smoother that way.

Looking to the drummer, Tim nodded his head, inviting Roger to come and join him. The blonde stayed put, reluctant to shorten the distance between the two of them once more. He feared that if he walked over there and sat down beside him on the arm of the couch, he’d never leave. After all, it seemed like Tim didn’t want him to.

“Afraid I’ll bite?” the bassist sneered, as if reading his friend’s mind.

Roger scoffed. “You wish you could bite me.”

The blonde’s off-the-cuff reply painted the brunette’s cheeks a bright red, averting his embarrassed gaze to the papers in front of him. He picked at them and moved them around, the rustling of the sheets disturbing the silence that otherwise consumed the dingy flat.

“You didn’t get your guitar,” the drummer pointed out, his emotionless voice cutting through the tension filling the room.

Tim sat there for a moment, true, unadulterated silence blanketing the two, before he clicked his tongue and murmured, “You’re right.” He pushed himself up off the sofa and started for the hallway yet again, except this time, he stopped dead in the threshold, turning his head over his shoulder and asking, “Why don’t you come with me this time in case I forget again?”

Roger swallowed the lump that formed in his throat, understanding that the brunette’s question wasn’t so much of a question as it was a request; a demand even. He didn’t want to let the blonde out of his sight, and in all honesty, Roger didn’t want to lose sight of Tim either, so he complied, dragging his feet across the dirty floor and following the bassist to his bedroom.

Lingering in the hallway, the blonde peered around the threshold, surprised to find the room relatively clean. The bassist had a neatly made bed, a nightstand holding a stack of books—presumably for the classes he was taking—a dresser with one of the drawers pulled open—a shirt draped over the edge—and a desk cluttered with papers, used tissues, and a few bottles of lotion. Had the blonde not been standing in the dark hall to remind himself of where he was, he wouldn’t have thought that the room was situated at the back of the filthy flat he’d overstayed his welcome in. It seemed so out of place; almost otherworldly. 

Tim snatched up the guitar that was leaned against the dresser and held it up as proof of his successful endeavor. “Got it.”

Roger snapped out of the slight daze he’d fallen into and flashed him a small grin. “Good. Let’s hear it.”

He turned to escape to the living room, but when he noticed that the brunette hadn’t moved to follow him, he turned back. The two engaged in yet another enduring gaze, the blonde trying to read his friend’s thoughts and vice versa. It didn’t take long for Roger to realize how useless it was, letting frustration get the best of him and snapping, “Tim, come on. I’m tired of playing this game with you.”

“What game?” the brunette muttered, as if he wasn’t the one who started it.

“I don’t fucking know, Tim, but you’re really starting to freak me out and I just want to go home.” He crossed his arms uneasily over his chest, stealing a glance at the door that was just a few strides away. Escape was so close, yet at the same time, so far.

“You just got here, though,” Tim argued, a lack of conviction in his voice.

“Look, either play your damn song or give me a smoke, because I’m not staying here otherwise,” the blonde leveled, shooting a glare in the bassist’s direction. Tim clenched his jaw, the syringe burning a hole in his pocket and the neck of the guitar cracking underneath his tightening grip. “Well?” Roger asked when the brunette failed to respond.

Tim heaved a sigh and shoved his hand into the pocket opposite the one with the syringe, digging out the Zippo and tossing it across the room. When the drummer caught the lighter in his hands, the bassist blurted out, “Don’t take too long, okay?”

Roger only nodded his head, daring to leave the flat that was starting to feel like a prison. On his way down the stairs, he whipped out the carton of cigarettes from his pocket and—with his thumb—pushed one out, pinching it between his lips. Though physically he longed to make a quick escape, he knew mentally that would only lower his chances of breaking free, and so he took his time leaving, preserving his energy for when he made it outside, planning to make a run for it as soon as he crossed the threshold.

On the last step, the blonde uncapped the Zippo and brought the small flame to the end of the white stick protruding from the corner of his mouth. He took a deep breath and held the relaxing smoke in his lungs, surveying the eerie entryway once more. His eyes wandered over to the felt board, its missing letters and numbers calling him over.

In a near trance, the drummer dragged himself across the foyer and stood before the mysterious felt board, trying to decipher the impartial names in hopes of figuring out of at least one so that he could get in touch with them, ask them if they knew anything about Tim or maybe to keep an eye on him. Roger wasn’t sure which request he was more inclined to make, concerned for his friend but also concerned about his own wellbeing—Brian’s too.

Suddenly, laughter hit the blonde’s ear, jerking his head in the direction of the voice. His eyes flittered around the shadows, but they saw nothing, no one. With a shiver trickling down his back, Roger brought the cigarette back up to his lips and headed for the door, pushing through them and taking the steps down toward the street. He stopped at the bottom and regretfully glanced back over his shoulder, staring up at the building and spotting Tim in one of the windows—one he could only assume was at the end of the hallway, for the brunette’s flat seemed further back in the complex.

Maintaining his cover, the blonde raised the white stick to show the bassist that he’d kept his word. Perhaps it was the distance between them, but, to Roger, Tim’s hard facial expression seemed unchanging as he slipped into the darkness behind him. It was at that moment that the drummer made his break for it, tossing the cigarette aside—the now extinguished white stick landing not too far away from the beer bottle wedged in the snow—and running down the street as fast as he could.

Short of breath and drenched in sweat, he slammed the door to Jo’s flat behind him, falling against the flat surface and sliding down it until he dropped to the floor. He sat with his legs stretched out in front of him, his hands limp by his sides, and his mind spinning in a desperate attempt to make sense of the strange sequence of events that filled his afternoon.

“Rog?” Jo asked, hopping down the stairs in nothing but a towel—another one in her hands, drying her damp hair. “What are you doing here? I thought you said Tim—”

“He’s not feeling well,” the blonde mumbled, his soulless gaze locked on the wall across from him. He didn’t even react when his girlfriend crossed the room, her wet footprints staining the hardwood floors, marking her tracks as she tossed the towel in her hands to the armchair and made her way over to his side, sitting down beside him and resting her head on his shoulder.

“Any word from Brian?” she wondered, wrapping her hand around Roger’s arm and giving it a slight squeeze.

“No,” the blonde answered dully. “Not yet.”

Jo pouted, stroking her hand up and down his jacket sleeve in a comforting way. “I’m sure he’ll come back soon. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to just run off like that.”

_He wasn’t._

“Can I ask you something?” Roger muttered, his mind reaching a dark conclusion that he hoped Jo would disprove. She sat up and nodded her head, earning a quick glance from her boyfriend before he rattled off, “Do you think Tim might’ve had something to do with Brian being gone?”

Jo’s brows furrowed together. “What?”

He shook his head, her baffled response affirming his belief that he was insane for thinking such a thing. “You’re right.” He placed a hand on the back of her head and brought her forehead to his lips, planting a quick kiss on it before picking himself up off the ground. “I’m gonna take a shower,” he announced.

“Roger, wait!” she called out, wanting to find out why he thought the bassist was involved in the guitarist’s disappearance, but he was already halfway up the stairs, determined to cleanse himself of the grimy feeling that clung to every part of his body like a parasite, following him all the way home.

He turned the shower handle all the way to the left, hoping the scalding hot water would rinse away the troubling thoughts that plagued his mind.

_He’s fine, Roger._

_Just stop worrying about it, okay? He’ll be back before you know it._

_He likes to disappear sometimes . . . You know, to clear his mind, start thinking straight again. Sometimes it’s for a few days, sometimes it’s for a few weeks, but he always comes back._

_Always._


	4. Chapter 4

The library that was but an hour away from shutting its doors and turning off its lights was silent as Roger tried to drown out the escalating thoughts in his head with the words in his biology textbook. Even with the glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose, the letters sprawled across the page were incoherent. The words they formed weren’t English, and neither were the illegible scribbles that covered his notebook. His head rested in the palm of his hand, the other tapping a pen against the textbook, when suddenly, the chair opposite him was pulled out.

The blonde’s head snapped up, and over the rim of the glasses he hated being seen in public with, his strained eyes focused on the friend he’d been avoiding for over a week now.

“‘Thought I’d find you here,” Tim commented as he threw down his backpack on the table and slipped into the seat.

“I’m busy, Tim,” the drummer mumbled, pulling the textbook and spiral notebook closer to him in a possessive-like manner, as if the bassist had come there to steal his notes.

“Yeah, I figured as much.” An awkward silence blanketed the pair, disrupted by the clearing of the brunette’s throat. “Look, Rog, I don’t know why you ran off that day—”

Roger couldn’t help but scoff. “You don’t know why I ran off that day?” He slammed his pen down. “How about the fact that you kept looking at me like I was some girl you wanted to shag, or the fact that you fucking grabbed me so hard that you bruised me?” He raised the afflicted area as proof, the dark fingerprints staining his lower arm faded but still visible.

Tim took a deep breath, controlling his emotions as he answered, “I got carried away. I’m sorry.”

“Tell that to my fucking wrist,” the blonde muttered, upset that he hadn’t been able to drum the past few days because of it.

“I want to make it up to you,” the bassist blurted out, sticking his hand into his backpack and pulling out a small box. “Here.” He slid it across the table, anxious to see whether Roger would take the bait or not.

Sure enough, curiosity got the best of the drummer and he took the peace offering into his possession, carefully opening the lid—weary of what was inside—and raising an eyebrow. “Jammie Dodgers?” he asked, meeting his bandmate’s gaze.

“They were the only ones left in the store,” Tim lied, a faint shade of red rising in his cheeks.

Roger’s eyes flickered between the package of biscuits and those of the bassist, remembering his strange insistence with the tea and the long, thin bulge in his back pocket that day. He felt crazy for trying to forge a connection between those and this, but the blonde wasn’t willing to take any chances.

“I’m not hungry,” he countered, sliding the treats back across the table.

“What do you mean you’re not hungry?” the brunette snapped, his composure fracturing.

Roger pushed the eyeglasses further up the bridge of his nose and tipped his head down. “Leave me alone, Tim,” he murmured, trying to shift his focus back to the blurry words printed on the crinkled page. “I’ve gotta study.”

The bassist clenched his jaw and snatched the Jammie Dodgers up from the table, shooting out of his chair so fast that it toppled over behind him, the crash echoing through the largely empty space and earning Tim the drummer’s attention once more. “You’re making this very difficult,” he growled, his tightened grip crushing the poor box.

“Making what difficult?” Roger dared to ask.

He wouldn’t get his answer, though, with the brunette storming off, dissatisfied with the outcome of their encounter. It hadn’t gone to plan at all. He had hoped the blonde would accept his offer, take a bite of just one of the cookies and succumb to the darkness that would’ve washed over him. The effects would only be temporary; Tim made sure of it. He wasn’t out to kill the bloke, after all. He just wanted to have him, and do with him what he’d dreamed of doing since the minute he first laid eyes on him.

As usual, though, there was always some sort of obstacle for him to overcome. First it was Brian; now it was Roger himself. Tim would have to come up with something more clever than laced Jammie Dodgers if he were to have his way, or perhaps something that didn’t give the blonde a choice, something he would have no say in.

The more the brunette gravitated towards the latter option, the more excited he became. What was once a game of trickery quickly turned into one of stalking, the bassist devoting his time to studying the drummer’s routine—where and when he went, who he was meeting up with, how he got there, why he was going, what he did there, etc. In a matter of a week, Tim had Roger’s schedule down pat—as if he didn’t already know it.

He waited across the street from Jo’s flat one night, lurking behind a vehicle parked along the curb. Buried in a heavy parka, a ski mask shoved inside the pocket opposite the one containing the newly filled syringe, he watched the complex’s door intently, anticipating the couple’s emergence and ginger kiss goodbye before Jo went off to attend her evening class.

Most nights, the arrangement worked out perfectly, with the lecture lasting a painstaking two hours—not to mention that, afterwards, Jo would usually grab a cup of tea with one of her classmates. This gave Roger a perfect excuse to find Brian and “mess around,” as he liked put it. However, with Brian gone, the blonde had resorted to spending his nights in, practicing his drumming as much as he could before the pain in his wrist became too overwhelming. Witnessing his frustration firsthand through the window broke Tim’s heart, but he knew it would only be a little while longer before the pain would vanish. In fact, Roger wouldn’t be feeling anything soon.

Right on cue, the pair doomed for disaster stepped outside. Roger leaned in and planted a quick kiss on Jo’s cheek, sending her off with a hand that lingered down her arm and fell limply to his side as he watched her hop in her car and drive off. As the vehicle turned the corner, the blonde hugged himself and scanned the neighborhood with narrowed eyes, an uneasy feeling forming in the pit of his stomach—like he was being spied on. He wasn’t entirely wrong.

As his baby blues trailed towards Tim, the brunette instinctively ducked down, sitting flush against the wheel of the car he’d been using for cover. He hadn’t noticed it, but ironically, the car was a police cruiser. His heart began to race, and with his chest rising up and down rapidly, he tried to listen over the sound of his quick breaths for the click of the complex door—or better yet, a slam.

He heard neither.

When what Tim could only estimate was three or four minutes passed by, he dared to take a look over the hood of the vehicle. Sure enough, the stoop was cleared—Roger having slipped back inside to the comfort and safety of his girlfriend’s flat. With the coast clear, Tim shot up from behind the car and darted across the street, rushing into the flat complex that was much nicer than his and shutting the door behind him.

His eyes flickered around the entryway, looking for something that would give him some sort of indication as to which flat was Jo’s. In absence of a felt board similar to—and most likely, more helpful than—the one his building had, letter boxes lined the wall. He approached the collection in hopes of finding the box labeled with her name and flat number, but much to his disdain, the labels corresponded only to the unit numbers—not the tenants.

Tim huffed in defeat and turned for the door when, suddenly, a solution crossed his mind. He slowly glanced back at the letter boxes, a devious smirk curling at the corner of his lips. Soon enough, he was sifting through the mail, going through the assorted envelopes and packages and looking for the names and addresses scribbled across them. About halfway through, he stumbled across a letter sent to Jo, Apartment 3A.

The syringe burned a hole in brunette’s pocket as he threw the mail back into its place and flew up the staircase. He reached the landing for the third floor and took a moment to revel in the buzz coursing through his entire body. It was electric. In fact, he was so giddy that he almost forgot to disguise himself, stopping just before he made contact with the door with his raised fist to grab the ski mask out from his coat and pull it over his head, his eyes and mouth peeking through the holes cut into the black fabric.

With a sigh that made clear there was no turning back, Tim began to knock—relentlessly, keeping up the incessant pounding until the door swung in. The bassist barely caught the perplexed expression that washed over the drummer’s face before he charged forward and tackled the unsuspecting blonde to the ground.

Roger’s resistance and earnest attempt to fight back only urged Tim on, exciting the brunette who was most eager to overpower and sedate him. It was more difficult than the bassist had imagined to hold the drummer down with only one arm—the blonde thrashing underneath his attacker—but somehow, Tim managed it, using his free hand to dig the syringe out and stab its sharp needle into the blonde’s exposed neck. Without a second though, he pushed the plunger down with a trembling thumb and watched the clear liquid empty into his bloodstream.

It took no time at all for the drummer’s body to relax, falling limp beneath the bassist. Tim smiled, relieved in knowing that the hardest part was over and done with. Now all he had to do was get him back to his place, where he could begin to live out the fantasy he’d been constructing for over a year.

“Roger?”

Tim’s head shot over his shoulder, his wide eyes descending upon an older man dressed in a flamboyantly blue, polka-dotted, long-sleeve button-up, a white sailor’s hat, and a matching white, satin ascot. The forty-something-year-old man’s equally wide eyes hid behind a pair of oversized glasses, and in one hand was a cigar—the other pressed against his chest in concern.

Before the stranger could react, the brunette shoved his hand into his jacket and grabbed his chest, growling, “Walk away or I’ll shoot.”

The older man threw his hands up in surrender, replying, “Oh, honey, I’m just walking by. I didn’t see a thing.”

Tim swallowed the nervous lump that formed in his throat and slipped his hand out from the coat, choking out a barely audible, “Good.” He tipped his masked head toward the stairs. “Now get on.”

Jo’s neighbor didn’t need to be told twice to bugger off, turning his back to the horrifying scene and escaping down the hall with a haste that Roger envied. If only the blonde had been able to move, even just his eyes, he could’ve gotten the older man to do something, or say something to someone who could, but motionless, he was subject to his friend’s left-field torment.

With the neighbor out of sight, Tim clenched his jaw and picked himself up off the ground, staring down at his friend who wanted to shed a tear but couldn’t—paralyzed both physically and in fear. Roger listened as the bassist’s heavy footsteps walked over him and into the flat, the sound of drawers being ripped open and their contents being rifled through hitting his ears with an anguish he couldn’t express.

Before long, the brunette returned, securing a tube sock around the blonde’s immobile head and pulling it over his eyes. “There,” he grinned triumphantly, sitting back and admiring his work. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

After pinching Roger’s cheek, Tim jumped up from the ground and lifted the blonde over his shoulder, carrying him out of the apartment complex and onto the deserted street, where he rounded the corner where his car was parked and laid him down in the backseat. As the brunette stepped back and slammed the door shut, he spotted a pair of cops across the way. Smiling, he waved at them. The policemen raised unsuspecting hands back, letting the bassist slide into the driver’s seat and ride off without raising an air of suspicion.

Stealing a quick glance at his passenger spread across the seat behind him, Tim smirked. “You’re all mine, now, Roger—” A solemn expression washed over his face and twisted his smile into a frown, his voice dropping and his attention returning to the road as he added grimly, “—just like you should’ve been from the start.”


End file.
